Human Error
by Sky Writes
Summary: When Sherlock turns up to a crime scene under the influence of drugs John's first instinct is to yell at him, but he knows what Sherlock really needs now is a friend. Set after The Hounds of Baskerville.


Warnings: References to drug use.

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"And that is how you killed your wife!"

"I didn't, I swear!"

John Watson's heart pounded as he watched the scene unfold before them. Just hours after being handed over Lestrade's latest unsolved case Sherlock was drawing his final conclusion. John had no idea why he would do so. They had no evidence. They had only just stepped into this poor man's flat thirty minutes ago. Lestrade stood beside him looking just as confused as John felt; his face was as pale as a ghost.

"Lestrade, arrest this man!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing an accusing finger towards the suspect.

"Sherlock-"Lestrade warned.

The suspect's eyes darted from John, to Lestrade, to Sherlock, begging them for a way out. The man's wife had been found dead just twenty-four hours ago, and Sherlock was already willing to accuse him of the crime simply because they found him watching his favorite television show that night.

"Sherlock," John echoed, taking a step closer to his flatmate. He brought his voice down to a whisper. "Don't you think you should hold off on the accusations until there's some, you know, _evidence_?"

"_Evidence?"_

The cry bounced off the walls of the apartment. John jumped, startled as his friend's words stung his ears. Lestrade ran a hand over his face, obviously ready to call it a day, but John was becoming more concerned than anything.

"We can't afford to wait around for evidence, John!"

"And this man can't afford to spend the rest of his life in prison for a crime he clearly didn't commit!" John exclaimed.

He stopped, and Sherlock froze. It was then John noticed how vacant Sherlock's eyes were- how red they were. He stepped back and took a moment to examine his friends, and he instantly recognized all the signs.

"Jesus," he muttered, raising a hand to his forehead.

"That's it," Lestrade announced, "Sherlock, out."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade, taken aback.

"You can't throw me out," he shot.

John drew in a sharp breath; Lestrade looked like he wanted to punch him in the face.

"I'm the bloody D.I., and I can do whatever I please!" Lestrade shouted. "Get out of my crime scene, _now_."

John was aware that he wasn't breathing, but he didn't have the will to do anything about it. His heart continued to race in his chest as he took in everything that was going on. Lestrade must have suspected from the beginning something was wrong.

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room one last time before narrowing in on a sofa cushion that wasn't quite as straight as the others.

"That's where you'll find the weapon," Sherlock said, his voice cold, unlike John had heard before. "If you still care about putting the bad guys away, that is."

"Wait by the car," Lestrade ordered.

He took Sherlock by the arm and shoved him towards the door. John glanced towards him, looking for guidance, but was surprised to see Lestrade looked just as angry with him as he was with Sherlock.

"Come on," John announced.

He followed his friend as he left the flat. John noticed right away the unsteadiness in Sherlock's steps. He unconsciously rubbed his hand up and down his arm as he shivered, pulling his jacket closely around him. John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, steadying him as he leaned against the car. It appeared to be a great effort just for Sherlock to move in the slightest way. They stood there in silence, allowing the cool breeze to ease the tension between them.

"When?" John demanded.

Sherlock's voice was only a small whisper as he replied:

"Last night."

John nodded. He tried to pretend like this was just an ordinary conversation with another patient, but it was all too surreal to realize this was Sherlock he was asking these questions to. Sherlock who, just the day before, seemed perfectly content as he examined one of the chemical samples he managed to steal from Baskerville just a week before.

"What?" John asked, more softly this time.

No reply.

Sherlock raised his palms to his forehead, squeezing them against his eyes as though desperately wishing to send himself back in time.

"How angry is he?" Sherlock asked.

"Lestrade?" John glanced up and watched Lestrade comfort their suspect. The D.I. glanced out the window just then; his eyes bypassed John and fell on Sherlock, filled with concern. "Pissed, but concerned."

"I swore to him I'd never show up at another crime scene like this again," Sherlock admitted.

"_Again?"_

Sherlock nodded but didn't explain. John crossed his arms and stared at his feet, unsure of what to say. Sherlock never talked about his _habits_, and the only time John was ever forced to remember them was when Mycroft warned him of danger nights. John always thought that was Mycroft being overprotective. He never would have thought Sherlock would go off the rails like this again.

"On a scale of one to ten, how badly did I screw this up?" Sherlock asked.

He sounded legitimately afraid to know the answer.

"I'd say about a twenty," John admitted. Sherlock let out a shallow laugh. He brought his hands down from his face, and John was surprised to see his eyes damp with dried tears. "But it's alright. After all, what would Lestrade do without you?"

Once again Sherlock remained silent. John glanced over at him, and his heart skipped a beat when he noticed his friend's pace had turned deathly pale. To his horror, he noticed a small team of reporters had gathered near the crime scene.

"Come on," John said.

He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and led him to the alleyway beside the flat. As soon as they were safely hidden from the press Sherlock doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. John placed a hand on his back, remaining silent as Sherlock caught his breath. His friend raised a shaky hand to his mouth, wiping at his face before standing up. He was breaking out into a sweat.

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered.

"It's fine," John said, "I'm a doctor, I've seen worse."

The smallest of smiles appeared on Sherlock's face, making John feel a little better. He led him over to the wall and they took a seat. He gave Sherlock a moment to catch his breath before asking:

"You never told me. When did all of this start- the drugs?"

He desperately avoided meeting his friends eyes, instantly feeling guilty for asking such a personal question. He was surprised when Sherlock honestly replied:

"When I started university." Again his voice was so quiet, so lacking the confidence he was usually radiating. "Mycroft forced me into rehab a year later. Ruined my university career."

John nodded, too in shock to reply. Suddenly Sherlock's feud with his brother made sense. An abrupt ending to Sherlock's schooling, putting his potential career at risk- of course Sherlock would view that as Mycroft ruining his life. Yet John knew Mycroft would do anything if it meant protecting his brother's well-being, and he knew Sherlock's life must have been at serious risk if Mycroft was willing to put his future on the line like that.

"I hate to ask but Sherlock, I have to know," he drew in a deep breath before asking the inevitable: "Why did you feel the need to use again?"

Sherlock appeared to turn green at the question, and John was worried he'd be sick again.

"Was it Baskerville?" John suggested.

Sherlock shook his head and then tilted it back against the brick wall. He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes as he admitted:

"I don't know what I'm doing. I…I can't do this." It pained John to hear him sound so defeated, but he let him continue. "I'm not a detective, John. I just make stabs in the dark, and everyone listens because they're all so _stupid_. But that doesn't work all the time. People are starting to get hurt."

John realized he knew what Sherlock was talking about.

"Moriarty," John whispered.

Sherlock looked sickened just at hearing a name.

"Sherlock…" John began, fighting for the best words to say. "You know none of that was your fault. No one blames you."

"They don't have to," Sherlock moaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "What am I doing, John? How long is it going to be before-"

"Stop it. Stop it, right now Sherlock," John shot. "You know you don't believe a single word you're saying." He took a deep breath and stole a glance towards his friend. Sherlock looked utterly miserable. "Sherlock…I, I never told you this, but when I came back from Afghanistan, I had terrible nightmares. I was in shock, I had been shot. I was just reliving the horror over and over again."

"I know," Sherlock admitted, "when we first moved into Bakerstreet I used to hear you wake up in the middle of the night, clearly from some horrible nightmare. I still didn't know you very well, I figured it wasn't my place-"

"It's fine," he said quickly, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. "The point is, you helped me get through that. It's not all a joke. Sherlock, you've done great work. Moriarty…Moriarty is a special case. Believe me, I felt my share of guilt over those deaths, but it only made me want to work harder to stop him."

Sherlock remained silent. Life was slowly coming back into his eyes; color appeared in his face again.

"We all have our moments of weakness," John continued. "We all are afraid sometimes. I think that Baskerville really showed you that. You're becoming famous, you know, and I think it's getting into your head. Not in the way fame does to most people, but it's making you second guess yourself. And you shouldn't."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath; John noticed his hands were trembling. Ever so slowly, withdrawal was beginning to kick in.

"You don't need the bloody drugs," John said. "You just need to admit that you're human."

Sherlock nodded, and in a small voice replied:

"Thanks, John."

He felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of him.

"Next time you feel like this just talk to me. It's not wrong to admit you're going through something. Come to me, or Lestrade. I can tell he cares."

"He was the only person who kept me from going completely off the rails last time," Sherlock admitted. He closed his eyes, looking like someone suddenly slammed a fist into his face. "The weapon's under the sofa cushion. I solved the case, while on drugs. That's going to ruin the trial for Lestrade."

"It's okay," John said, though he really couldn't be sure what would happen. "Lestrade will figure it out."

Sherlock didn't look too convinced, but he at least looked well enough to face the world again. They had a long, painful, night ahead of him, and John knew Sherlock was already dreading every minute of it.

"John?" Sherlock asked. He looked at him, meeting his friend's eyes for the first time. John swallowed, struggling to hide how terrified he was to see him like this. He knew what Sherlock wanted to ask.

"Yeah," he offered, "I'll stay home tonight."

He knew Sherlock didn't need to be alone while going through the withdrawal. As much as he wanted to yell at him, as much as he wanted to ask him how he could be so stupid, and as much as he wanted to threaten to walk out if he ever tried to pull off anything like this again, John knew that now- more than ever- Sherlock needed a friend.

"I know I'm in no position to be asking favors," Sherlock said, "but can you do one more thing?"

"What's that?"

"Please…just don't tell Mycroft."

John couldn't help but to smile. Rarely did Sherlock say 'please' for anything. Somehow, it was comforting to know that at the end of the day Sherlock was most concerned about hiding this moment of weakness from his older brother.

"I won't," John said. "I promise."

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Author's Note: This began as a one-part story, but if you would be interested in reading more, let me know! I appreciate any feedback! Thanks.


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